


Holding Tie-tly

by silver_etoile



Series: Mr. Eames [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Exhibitionism, Holidays, M/M, Tumblr Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 06:49:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_etoile/pseuds/silver_etoile
Summary: Bringing Eames home for Thanksgiving wasn't part of Arthur's plan, but then again, dating a guy who posts porn on Tumblr wasn't either. Maybe it's time Arthur just gave in.





	Holding Tie-tly

“Do you think Dom knows?”

“What we’re doing in here?” Eames reaches for a tissue, wiping off his hand as they lay on his bed. It’s lumpy but somehow still comfortable, although maybe it’s just that Arthur has gotten used to it. He tries not to think about how often, or if, Eames washes his sheets. “Yes, though I think he prefers not to think about it.”

Arthur ignores him, taking the tissue Eames hands him and wiping the come off his stomach. Dom is home, shut away in his room, which is probably how Arthur and Eames went from watching a movie in the living room to fucking against the wall of his bedroom in less than twenty minutes.

“What you do with the camera,” he says, dropping the tissue in the trash can by the bed. 

“Not sure Dom knows I even have it,” Eames says lazily, rubbing his stomach and sighing.

It’s Saturday afternoon and Arthur should be finishing an essay for his Freshman English class, but he’s here in Eames bedroom, the blinds shut against the drizzly weather outside. There’s a chill in the air, winter imminent.

“You don’t think he stalks your tumblr?”

Eames laughs, rolling over into Arthur. Arthur lets his eyes graze over Eames’ face, his bright eyes, the quirk of his mouth, five o’clock shadow crawling up his jaw. Sometimes he still can’t believe this happened.

“I sincerely hope not,” Eames says, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s neck. “Besides, Dom is far too upstanding for that.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Arthur can feel Eames’ grin against his skin. “You were certainly surprising.”

Arthur tries to roll his eyes, but Eames is pressing light, soft kisses up the column of his neck. “You’ve seen my closet. No surprises there.”

“I don’t know,” Eames says thoughtfully, sucking on Arthur’s jaw. Arthur gives him a slight shove. He doesn’t need a mark for everyone to stare at. He’ll be home for Thanksgiving in a few days and he can’t give his mom any reason to ask questions. “That Arctic Monkeys shirt still hasn’t made an appearance.”

Arthur sighs as Eames kisses him, a slow sweep of his tongue in his mouth, something deep that makes Arthur’s heart do stupid somersaults whenever Eames does it. He could kiss Eames like this forever, sucking on his lower lip, teeth scraping against skin as Eames hums softly.

“I’m saving it,” Arthur murmurs between kisses.

“For your internet debut?” Eames asks, raking a hand through Arthur’s hair and tilting his head to the side as he kisses him again.

Eames is joking, but Arthur doesn’t reply. He’s thought about it. He thought about it before he even met Eames in real life. It’s a joke now, but Arthur knows Eames would do it in a second if he actually agreed. Eames loves the camera and it loves him.

Since he and Arthur made it “official” or as official as things can be after a month and a half, Eames hasn’t posted any videos, though Arthur has seen his laptop and the backlog of videos he does have waiting to go. Apparently Eames likes to horde videos.

“For slow periods,” Eames said when Arthur asked. “Not everyone wants to be filmed.”

Arthur doubts that Eames actually has slow periods except maybe during finals. 

There are two problems to being filmed. One, Arthur may not be self-conscious with just Eames, but the whole world is another thing entirely. Knowing people would watch it is enough anxiety on its own. Two, Arthur wants to become a judge. He’s going to go to a pretentious law school and become a lawyer and then a judge. He can’t have a sex tape floating around on the internet to get in the way of that.

Eames’ kisses are slow and warm, like he has all the time in the world to go on kissing Arthur. His hands bracket Arthur’s jaw, fingers stroking his neck, and Arthur shivers involuntarily.

Life dating Eames isn’t as weird or difficult as Arthur thought it might be. Eames is unsurprisingly laid back and immune to Arthur’s annoying quirks. Arthur’s learned quite a bit about Eames as well in the past few weeks, like that his favorite poet is Edna St. Vincent Millay (”She was bisexual,” Eames tells Arthur as he pushes inside him) and that Eames plans to become a ‘hot English professor’ someday (”Yes,” Eames says as he guides Arthur’s feet over his head, “you have to use those exact words if you tell people.”).

Arthur doesn’t want to leave but he still has that stupid essay to finish. It’s reluctantly that he nudges Eames back, lips red and tingling.

“I have to go finish an essay,” he says, and Eames wrinkles his nose. “It’s due on Monday.”

“An essay due two weeks before finals?” Eames says, flopping onto his back and casting an arm over his eyes as Arthur rolls off the bed and begins the search for his clothes. “What awful class is that for?”

“English. Your beloved major.”

“You cannot compare Freshman English to an Analysis of Post-Modern Poetry,” Eames says, lowering his arm to watch Arthur pull on his pants and zip them.

“You’re right,” Arthur says, grabbing his button-down from its crumpled pile on the floor. “Yours sounds worse.”

“You are hilarious,” Eames says, rolling to his feet and crowding Arthur up against the door as Arthur tries to get the last few buttons closed. “How about I write your essay and then you suck me off?”

“Tempting,” Arthur says, though his heart does beat faster at the suggestion, and he’s sure Eames can tell by his shit-eating grin. “But I do my own work.”

“Yes, Darling, you do,” Eames agrees, kissing Arthur easily. He steps back and scoops Arthur’s sweater from the floor. “Go be responsible.”

Arthur wants to roll his eyes at how ridiculous Eames is, but damn it, he just finds it charming.

He leaves Eames’ room, passing Dom in the kitchen. Dom merely nods in greeting, and Arthur doesn’t feel the need to start an awkward conversation. So he nods in return and keeps on walking. He’d rather not leave Eames right now, but school takes precedence. If he’s going to become a lawyer, he needs to stay on top of everything, not just Eames.

*

“Thought you’d be out with the boyfriend,” Yusuf says when Arthur enters the dorm. Arthur is more surprised that Yusuf is there on a Saturday evening, lounging on his bed in sweatpants, a book actually open.

“I have work to do,” Arthur says, tossing his sweater over the chair.

“Finals, eh?” Yusuf asks, making a sound of disgust. “They should be illegal. Or at least allow us some kind of sedatives to get through them.”

“I don’t think sedatives would help,” Arthur says, opening his laptop and bringing up his only partially-started essay. 

“You’re right,” Yusuf agrees. “Uppers would be much better. You know, I’ve been working on a chemical compound that gives a nice buzz, similar to alcohol but without the hangover.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m not sure that’s why you have access to the chem labs.”

“Chemistry major,” Yusuf reminds him with a flick to his hand. 

Arthur has found, in the past month, that he and Yusuf get along better than he thought. He supposes he never gave him the time of day before.

“I’m glad it’s a short week,” Yusuf says, flipping the page in his textbook. “Thanksgiving cannot come soon enough.”

Arthur agrees, wholeheartedly, as he frowns at his essay and the blinking cursor signaling his doom.

*

“I was going to leave around, like, noon on Wednesday,” Ariadne says as they sit in philosophy. The class hasn’t started yet and people are still milling in. “Will you be ready to go by then?”

Arthur shoots her a look. “I’m not the late one.”

“Well, lately,” she says with a look in return. “You’re always off with Eames.”

“That doesn’t make me late,” Arthur points out.

“I just want to get home before the traffic,” Ariadne says, pulling out her notebook even though she hasn’t taken notes in this class since October. “And the weather says it might snow.”

It would be the first snow of the year, late this year for the north east.

“Is Eames going home?” she asks as the lecture hall starts to fill up, though it’s still emptier than usual. A lot of people seem to have taken the whole week off.

Arthur shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t ask him?”

“No,” Arthur says, ignoring the look she gives him, as though she can’t believe he hasn’t. He and Eames have only been officially dating a few weeks. They don’t tell each other everything, and Arthur doesn’t want to be one of those people who keeps tabs on other people.

“What if he’s not going anywhere?” she asks, sounding concerned. “What if he’s just going to sit in his apartment alone while Dom’s off in California, drinking and watching the Great British Bake Off?”

“That’s a very specific hypothetical.” At Ariadne’s unimpressed look, Arthur sighs. “He’s twenty-one. If he wants to go somewhere, he will.”

Arthur has no idea what Eames’ plans are for Thanksgiving. He could be going home for all he knows. Or maybe he will spend the long weekend drinking in his underwear, filming jerk off scenes for his tumblr.

“Some boyfriend you are,” Ariadne mutters as Arthur stares. “This is just like when we were dating and you refused to go to prom.”

“I didn’t refuse. I just don’t see why the guy always has to ask. We were dating. It was implied.”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “Sometimes you just have to ask.”

Arthur frowns, but he doesn’t get to reply as Dom shows up and takes the seat next to Ariadne, smiling at both of them. Turning to the front, Arthur takes out his notebook. He’s at least going to take notes today.

*

“Studying doesn’t really work like that,” Arthur says as he sits on Eames’ couch.

Eames tilts his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve got your hand on my crotch,” Arthur says, though he doesn’t push it off. Eames’ hand rubs over the outline of his prick, a wicked grin on his face that Arthur can’t bring himself to be annoyed by.

“Is it distracting you?” Eames asks as he presses down and Arthur sucks in a sharp breath at the friction of his soft pants and the pressure of Eames’ hand.

“Not at all,” Arthur lies, though his hand grips his book tighter as Eames shifts beside him. His hand has crept up from only slightly distracting on Arthur’s thigh to completely tormenting as he squeezes Arthur through the fabric.

“So I shouldn’t stop,” Eames says, nipping at Arthur’s neck as Arthur shakes himself sharply, trying not to focus on Eames’ hand pressed against him.

“You can do whatever you want,” Arthur says, resolutely turning the page in his textbook.

He doesn’t know why he thought studying with Eames would be a good idea. They haven’t gotten much studying done. But they are dating and that’s what you do with people you were dating. Well, that and what Eames is currently doing.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Eames says, and Arthur only has a second to process it before Eames has his zipper open, his cock out, and his mouth around it.

Arthur jumps as Eames leans over him. His eyes fly to the front door.

“Eames,” he says. Dom could come home at any minute, and Arthur doesn’t fancy the idea of Dom walking in on this, no matter how good it feels.

“Been thinking about this all day,” Eames murmurs, licking up Arthur’s cock as Arthur squirms beneath him, torn between arousal and panic.

“Eames,” he says again, pushing gently at his shoulder, not enough to shove him away as his hips thrust into Eames’ mouth. “Dom could…”

“Yeah, he could,” Eames agrees, getting Arthur’s pants around his thighs as he slides in, sucking as Arthur bites back a moan.

“Jesus, you’re…” Arthur never finishes his thought, though it was somewhere between ‘a jerk’ and ‘so hot.’ He shouldn’t get off on the idea that Dom could walk in, though Eames obviously does by the way he’s sucking on Arthur’s cock, hard and fast, his lips slick with spit, wet and warm.

Fuck it, Arthur decides, reaching for Eames’ head and shoving him down, closing his eyes and focusing on the noise Eames makes, the curl of heat in his stomach.

Eames fist curls around Arthur, and Arthur swallows hard, letting his head fall back against the couch cushions. His textbook topples off the couch and onto the floor with a thud.

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes as Eames takes him deep in his mouth, and he swears he can feel the back of Eames’ throat against the tip of his prick. Opening his eyes, he glances down at Eames’ pink lips stretched over him, his cheeks hollowed as he sucks on Arthur, his hand squeezing Arthur until Arthur can’t hold back and he comes, all over Eames’ hand, Eames’ chin.

Eames leans in, licking over Arthur as Arthur’s cock jerks and he groans at the release, the burst of tension in his body. Arthur shudders as Eames sucks on the tip, sensitive and spent.

“You’re a terrible study partner,” is all Arthur says as Eames wipes away the come on his chin and sits up. Arthur pulls his pants back up, though he doesn’t reach for his book yet. Eames looks satisfied, leaning back on the couch, though Arthur can see the outline of his erection in his jeans. “Why do you do that?” he asks after a second.

Eames leans into him, stealing a kiss. “Because you’re hot.”

“No, I mean, you never give anyone a blow job on camera.” In all the videos Arthur has seen, Eames has never sucked anyone off, but he’s done it to Arthur multiple times, including that first time in the library bathroom.

“Ah,” Eames says. “Well, I save those.”

“For what?”

“For in-person,” Eames says like it’s not weird at all. “Can’t give away all my secrets on the internet.”

“Do a lot of people recognize you?” Arthur asks because he never has.

“Not too many,” Eames says, adjusting his erection. “I’ve been posting vids for three years and you’d be surprised how few people pay attention.”

“What do you tell the guys you film?”

Eames shrugs. “That it’s going online. They rarely ask where.”

Arthur can’t imagine being that careless about his life. Instead, he grabs his textbook off the floor. “So when’s Dom leaving for this weekend?”

“Think his plane leaves tomorrow,” Eames replies, sliding an arm over the back of the couch.

Arthur nods at his book. “I’m going home on Wednesday.” He pauses as Eames doesn’t reply. It’s stupid Ariadne’s voice in his head that makes him ask, “Are you going home?”

“Nah,” Eames says easily. “Too far, and well, I’ve never quite understood the holiday.”

“Wait, have you never celebrated a Thanksgiving Day? You’ve lived in America for three years.”

Eames shrugs. “I just order in or go see a movie.”

“You mean you’re going to sit here all alone, drinking and watching the Great British Bake Off?”

“Don’t knock the Great British Bake Off,” Eames says seriously. “Those people are gifts.”

“I wasn’t,” Arthur assures him because secretly, he likes watching the show with Eames and rooting for his favorite. “But you can’t do that.”

“I don’t see why not,” Eames says, raising an eyebrow as Arthur shakes his head.

Arthur isn’t sure what makes him say it, though he thinks it has something to do with Ariadne’s voice echoing in his head.

“You should come to my house.”

Eames’ eyebrows rise even further, if that’s possible. “Are you inviting me home for the holidays?”

“Not like that,” Arthur says quickly, realizing what it sounds like. “Just, you can’t sit your apartment alone on Thanksgiving.”

“It’s worked for me so far.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, swallowing down the nerves rising in his throat. “Don’t make this hard. Just say okay.”

“Okay,” Eames agrees after a minute. “I’ll celebrate a traditional American Thanksgiving.”

“Okay,” Arthur echoes. “But, just so you know, this isn’t, like, a meet-the-parents kind of thing. It’s just you coming for the weekend because it’s too pathetic for you to be alone.”

Eames’s mouth quirks and Arthur bites his lip. “You sure your parents won’t mind?”

“It’s just my mom and no. She’ll probably be ecstatic I actually made a friend.”

“Just a friend, huh?” Eames asks curiously.

“It’s either that or we tell her we’re dating and she asks you a million questions.”

“I’m fine with questions.”

Arthur hesitates, pressure building in his chest, but he sighs a second later. It’s going to be okay. This wasn’t a bad idea, he tells himself firmly. Just a casual weekend with Eames at his house.

Maybe he should have thought about this a little more.

“Alright,” he says instead. “Then you’re coming for Thanksgiving.”

They fall silent for a moment and Arthur glances at where Eames is adjusting his erection again. He pauses. 

“You need help with that?”

Eames smiles. “I thought you’d never offer.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur scoots over on the couch. He can completely handle this weekend. As long as Eames keeps his hands to himself. It’ll be fine.

*

“You’re bringing Eames home?” Ariadne says as they sit in the car outside Eames’ apartment. “Did you tell your mom?”

Arthur tears his gaze away from the building. “She won’t care. She loves people, remember?”

“I’m sure she’ll love Eames,” Ariadne says with a smirk as Eames emerges from the building, a duffle bag in hand.

Eames slides into the car, tossing his bag in the free seat. “Good morning!” he greets them brightly, leaning forward to press a kiss to Arthur’s cheek. Arthur bites down the flush that rises on his face as Ariadne smirks at him.

“Morning,” Ariadne replies, pulling out of the lot. “You ready for Thanksgiving?”

“The ritual of far too much food, ostentatious parades on television, and American football? I’m quite intrigued, to be honest.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Arthur says, watching the windshield wipers pushing aside the rain.

“You can’t convince me that it’s not, Darling,” Eames says from the backseat, and Ariadne shoots Arthur a look at the pet name. Arthur wishes he had his own car so he wouldn’t have to endure two hours of Ariadne’s looks.

“Really, we’ll just eat food, watch TV, and my mom will want to go shopping.”

“Black Friday shopping?” Eames asks eagerly, scooting over to the middle seat so he can lean between them. “I’ve seen that on the telly. Fist fights over TVs, people getting trampled at midnight. Sounds like quite an event.”

“It’s not usually that dramatic,” Arthur says, but he wonders if Eames would want to come along, if his mother will invite Eames along, if maybe he should have thought this through.

“You can just hang with me while Arthur shops for more sweaters,” Ariadne tells Eames as they turn onto the highway. “Not that he needs anymore.”

“I am in favor of all of Arthur’s sweaters,” Eames says, and Arthur feels the flush again.

He resolutely ignores Ariadne’s look and stares out the window instead. Just a few more hours to go.

*

Ariadne drops Arthur and Eames off at his house, though Arthur stops Eames from heading for the door.

“Wait,” he says, taking a breath. “I don’t want this to be a big deal. This isn’t me introducing you to my mom like that.”

“It’s fine, Arthur,” Eames assures him. “Not everything has to be a production. It’s just a holiday weekend, at your childhood home… with your mother, after we’ve made things official…” Eames grins and Arthur glares.

“Just behave,” he says, though he’s not quite sure what he means by that.

Eames nods solemnly and follows Arthur to the door.

Arthur enters without knocking, stepping into the small foyer. It isn’t a huge house, just a traditional split-level house with too much wood trim and a squeaky staircase that leads up to the kitchen and down to the basement living area and Arthur’s room.

“Mom?” he calls, heading upstairs and Eames follows, glancing around curiously.

“Arthur!” Her voice rings out from down the hall, and Arthur hesitates as she appears from her room, beaming as she catches sight of him. She pauses, though, as her eyes fall on Eames.

“Mom, this is Eames,” Arthur says, feeling awkward already. “I invited him for Thanksgiving.”

“Oh!” Her smile widens and she hurries up to Eames. “That’s wonderful. Let me take your bag, Eames. That’s an interesting name. You can call me Laura.”

Eames seems surprised at her enthusiasm and catches Arthur’s eye behind her back as she takes his things to the guest bedroom upstairs.

“Thank you, Laura,” he says as she returns. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“You’re English,” she says, and Arthur wishes she would bring it down a notch, but she’s probably just excited that Arthur brought home anyone at all. “Are you from London?”

“I grew up in South London,” Eames says. “Though I did spend several years at a boarding school in Eton.”

Arthur frowns. He didn’t know that.

“Boarding school,” his mother repeats seriously. “I would have loved to send Arthur to a boarding school. Not to get rid of him. Just for the education.” She smiles at Arthur.

“I need to put my stuff away,” Arthur says abruptly. “Eames, come see the rest of the house.”

“I have hot apple cider brewing when you’re done,” his mom says as Arthur turns and goes back down the stairs. Eames follows him obediently, gazing after his mom.

“Your mum is lovely,” Eames says as they cross the living room to Arthur’s room downstairs.

“She spends too much time alone,” Arthur says, opening the door and tossing his bag inside. Eames wanders in after him, staring all around.

The room hasn’t changed at all since Arthur left. The same periodic table poster, the corners curling, is tacked to the wall, his bed neatly made, his desk arranged with his high school diploma in a frame, cup full of pens, an old copy of _The Old Man and the Sea_ sitting on top.

“I would have loved to have met you at boarding school,” Eames comments as Arthur unpacks his bag. He hates leaving it to later.

“I bet,” he says, glancing at Eames leaning against his desk. It’s slightly surreal, having Eames here, in his room, with his mother upstairs making cider.

“We definitely did not get as much studying done there as our parents would have liked.”

“I’m sure you were a model student,” Arthur says sarcastically, shutting his sock drawer.

“I was,” Eames assured him. “I never failed a class if I could blow the teacher.”

Arthur grimaces. “Gross.”

“Kidding,” Eames says, grabbing Arthur by his shirt tails as Arthur tries to pass him. Arthur stumbles forward, pressed against Eames. “It was just one professor.”

“Is that where your librarian-slash-professor kink comes from?”

“That comes from you wearing all those slim-fitting sweaters that make me just want to rip them off you,” Eames murmurs, kissing Arthur slowly.

It’s so strange, kissing Eames here. Like it shouldn’t be happening somehow. Like they’ve stepped into a weird alternate universe.

“We should get back upstairs,” Arthur says when Eames pulls away. He shouldn’t be making out with Eames in his room. He never did it in high school, and he isn’t sure what his mother would think of him starting now.

“Are you going to tell her?” Eames asks as they leave his room and head back upstairs.

Arthur hesitates. His mom will figure it out sooner or later—she’s very smart. Arthur just isn’t sure he should do it first.

“We’ll just see how it goes,” he says instead. Eames doesn’t reply behind him.

In the kitchen, his mom is pouring out mugs of cider. She brightens as they enter the room.

“Perfect timing,” she says. “Let’s go into the sitting room.”

The sitting room is a small space in the front of the house, just big enough for a couch and a few chairs, overlooking the front yard peppered with trees. Arthur has lived in this house his whole life, from the time he was born to when his mom threw his dad out for cheating on her, to high school graduation and Ariadne and him sneaking alcohol into his room downstairs while his mother slept.

“This is a great house,” Eames says, and Arthur is struck yet again by how charming Eames can be with strangers. He always seems to know the right thing to say, a skill Arthur has not yet mastered.

“Thank you,” Arthur’s mom says with an approving look at Arthur. “We’ve been here since before Arthur was born.”

Arthur sits on the couch and Eames joins him, though not as close as he could be. Arthur is secretly grateful. He’s not sure he’s ready for his mom to know everything. He’s not even sure he knows everything.

“How’d you two become friends?” she asks, blowing on her mug.

Arthur glances at Eames, his mind flitting to Eames’ tumblr page, the videos, that time in the bathroom.

“Mutual friend introduced us,” Eames says smoothly.

“More friends, good,” she says delightedly. You would think Arthur doesn’t have any friends by the way she says it.

“Yeah, well, Eames doesn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving, since it’s an American holiday, so I invited him to come here,” Arthur says, glancing at Eames, who looks comfortable.

“Any friend of Arthur’s is welcome,” she says sincerely. “We don’t often get very many—”

“Mom,” Arthur interrupts sharply and she waves him away. 

“More cider, Eames?” she asks, and Eames smiles.

“Love some.”

She grabs his mug and disappears into the kitchen. Eames glances at Arthur.

“Why do I get the feeling your mum thinks you have no friends?”

“Maybe because she does,” Arthur mutters. She’s always thought he needed a wider social circle, concerned he doesn’t have good enough people skills. She’s just trying to help, though Arthur sometimes wishes she wouldn’t.

Eames squeezes Arthur’s hand, sudden, unexpected, and Arthur looks at him, eyebrows furrowing at the brief rush of warm emotion that runs through his stomach. Eames pulls his hand away, though, as his mom returns with a full mug.

“Here you go,” she says, handing it to Eames and taking her seat again. “So tell me about London, Eames. I’ve always wanted to go.”

Arthur sits back as he listens to Eames talk. Maybe this weekend won’t be so bad after all.

*

“Why is my room so far away from your room?” Eames asks when Arthur shows him to it after an evening of nonstop questions from his mom about everything from Eames’ accent to his major to what his favorite foods are. Arthur has learned more about Eames this evening than he has in weeks of dating him.

“Because you’re the guest,” Arthur says, fluffing the pillow on the bed.

“Then where’s my chocolate bar?” Eames asks, testing the bed’s bounce as he sits down. Arthur puts his hands on his hips.

“This isn’t a full-service hotel.”

“But there are perks,” Eames says, tugging Arthur to sit down next to him and leaning over to kiss him.

Arthur pulls away sharply as he thinks he hears footsteps, but it’s just the pattering of paws and a black and white cat winds its way through the ajar door.

“It’s just Adonis,” he says with a breath of relief. The cat jumps on his lap, claws digging into his pants as it purrs loudly.

“He gets more lap time than I do,” Eames points out, and Arthur can’t help smiling.

“Well, he’s been here longer.”

It’s not as weird as Arthur thought it might be, having Eames here. His mother seems to just love him already. She might even consider adopting him as a second son if Arthur let her.

“So I should give it a few years?” Eames asks, petting the cat, and he purrs, if possible, even louder.

“Even the cat likes you.”

“I am loveable,” Eames says, smiling at Arthur. “Now, part of the perks of staying here is that I get to see you in pajamas tomorrow, yes?”

Arthur shoves the cat off his lap and stands up, heading for the door. “Who says I wear pajamas?”

Eames grins as Arthur pulls open the door.

“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

*

For a second when Arthur wakes up, everything seems normal. He’s in his room and he can already smell something cooking upstairs. He lies there for a minute, staring up at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling that have been there since he was eight. They don’t glow anymore.

Eames.

Arthur sits up abruptly. He’d almost forgotten. For a minute, he considers getting dressed from the old pajama bottoms he’s wearing and the faded tee shirt he got for free when he was fourteen, but maybe he’ll let Eames have a little something since he still hasn’t told his mother.

Upstairs, his mom is busy already, making snacks and prepping dishes.

“Morning, Arthur,” she greets him. “You almost missed the start of the parade. It’s your favorite part.”

“Is Eames up?” Arthur asks, joining her at the counter where she’s mixing some kind of dip.

“I haven’t heard him yet,” she says, sticking the dip in the fridge. She turns to Arthur. “I like him.”

“I know.” Everyone likes Eames. He just has that way about him.

“And it’s nice that you’ve made friends. Especially friends you feel like you can bring home.”

Arthur isn’t sure what she’s getting at, if it’s what he thinks it is, or she’s just saying it to say it.

He doesn’t get to ask, though, as Eames appears in the doorway. He’s fully dressed in a sweater that looks like his own mother picked it out. It’s a creamy white and printed with little deer silhouettes all over it.

“Eames,” his mom says as he steps in, not looking at all sleep rumpled, to Arthur’s disappointment. “How’d you sleep?”

“Great, thanks,” he says, smiling at her, though his gaze drifts to Arthur, and Arthur can tell he’s taking in his outfit from the curl to the edge of his lips.

“I should get dressed,” Arthur says, and his mom barely pays him any attention.

“Turn on the TV on your way. I want don’t want to miss the start of the parade.”

Arthur leaves Eames with his mom as he goes to change, pulling on a soft pair of pants and a button-down shirt that’s patterned with tiny fleur-de-lis. Back upstairs, he finds Eames chopping vegetables beside his mother, and he stares for a second at the scene.

“I love your sweater,” she says as Eames chops up the celery. “Where’d you get it?”

“My mum sent it to me,” Eames says. “It’s the most festive thing I own, so I thought it’d be appropriate for my first Thanksgiving after all.”

“I’m always looking for sweaters,” his mom says, pulling a bowl out of the cabinet. “Arthur has so many.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen his closet,” Eames says with a laugh, and Arthur’s chest thuds as his mom glances up, a question in her eyes.

“The parade started,” Arthur interrupts from behind them, and they both look back at him.

“Oh, well, you should go watch, Eames. It’s tradition.”

“But I—” Eames says, gesturing at the vegetables, and she waves him away, shooing him away from the counter.

“No, no, no. Enjoy. I have everything under control.”

“I like your mum,” Eames says as they head downstairs to where the television is on and the announcers are talking about the performances.

“She’s just excited you’re here,” Arthur says as they sit down. Eames sits closer this time, an arm along the back of the couch, behind Arthur.

“So what is the point of this parade?” Eames asks as a dance group starts to perform in the square.

“It’s tradition,” Arthur says. “Probably marketing for Macy’s.”

“And what else do we do today?” Eames moves his hand to the back of Arthur’s neck, massaging slowly. Arthur can’t help glancing at the stairs, as though his mother might descend at any minute.

“The parade is three hours long. Then there’s the dog show, or there’s football if you want to watch that. No idea who’s playing. Then we eat dinner and that’s it.”

“Such an arduous schedule,” Eames says, and Arthur laughs at him. “What?”

“Don’t say ‘schedule.’”

“I will say whatever words I like with whatever accent I like,” Eames says haughtily, but he squeezes Arthur’s neck and grins. “And you can’t stop me.”

“I can think of a few ways to shut you up.”

Eames’ mouth curls into a smirk. “I like the way you think, Arthur.”

Arthur bites back his smile as he settles onto the couch, Eames’ fingers playing absently with his hair. “Just be quiet and watch the parade.”

*

They get through the whole parade and partly into the dog show because Eames says he has no interest in American football when the house fills up with the smell of turkey and mashed potatoes. 

It’s so comfortable, curled on the couch, Arthur finds himself thinking. Eames’ arm is draped over his shoulders, casually, like he’s forgotten it’s there, and Eames is watching the TV, enraptured.

“Growing up, we had a Sussex Spaniel. Chocolate brown and so friendly. His name was Charlie and he followed me everywhere.”

“I never had a dog,” Arthur says right as Adonis jumps up on the couch next to him and curls up in a ball. “My mom’s allergic.”

“Dog’s are fantastic companions,” Eames says as they watch a Brittany prance by on the screen.

“Arthur, Eames?” His mother’s footsteps fall on the stairs, and Eames is a little too slow pulling his arm aside as she comes into view. “Dinner’s almost ready if you want to set the table, Arthur.”

“I’ll help,” Eames says easily, rising with Arthur, and Arthur carefully avoids meeting his mother’s gaze as he passes her on the staircase.

Arthur grabs plates and silver wear from the cabinets. It’s always just the two of them, so they never break out the good china. Arthur isn’t even sure they have any. He knows Eames won’t mind using regular plates.

“Is there a reason we’re eating so early?” Eames asks as he helps Arthur set out the forks.

“Just think of it like Sunday Roast,” Arthur says, though he has very little knowledge of what Sunday Roasts entail.

When the table’s set, Arthur goes downstairs to change, adding a tie and pulling on a sweater vest. They don’t necessarily dress for dinner, but it’s nice to do it on holidays, Arthur figures, since his mom doesn’t spend them with anyone else.

“Is that a tie?” Eames asks, and Arthur looks over to find him in his doorway.

“So?” Arthur asks, and Eames practically stalks forward, reaching for the tie, fingering the knot as his eyes flick to Arthur’s.

“God, if your mum wasn’t upstairs right now, I’d have you so fast,” Eames murmurs, his fingers trailing over the tie, down Arthur’s chest, and Arthur swallows against the sharp arousal on his skin.

“It’s just a tie,” Arthur manages to get out, and he can practically feel the heat coming off Eames as they stand there, chest to chest, Eames’ hands on his neck. “Is this part of your authority kink?”

He wants Eames to rip the tie off him, use it to bind him up against the headboard, fuck him until he sees stars. But his mother is upstairs, and dinner is almost ready. Still, he can’t help keening into Eames just a little.

“You need to wear a tie back at school,” Eames tells him, completely serious, brushing a hand over Arthur’s jaw, leaning into his forehead. Arthur can feel the slight pant to Eames’ breath as they stand there. Fuck, Eames really likes this, and Arthur likes that he likes it.

“Yeah, okay,” Arthur agrees because he wants to see Eames like this again when they can actually do something about it.

“Okay,” Eames repeats softly, kissing Arthur intently, hot and slow, until Arthur pushes him away.

“Dinner,” he reminds him, and Eames nods, like he’s trying to focus. Arthur allows himself a small smirk as he turns away. He does have his own sort of sway over Eames.

Upstairs, the table is groaning under way too much food. There will be leftovers for days.

“Alright,” his mom says as they sit down and even Eames seems impressed at the amount of food. “Now we all say one thing that we’re thankful for. Eames, would you like to go first?”

Eames glances at her and then Arthur. “Well, I’m thankful that I’m here, having my first American Thanksgiving.”

She smiles. “I’m also thankful that you’re here,” she says. “And that Arthur has found such a good friend.”

All eyes turn to Arthur and he sits up slightly, put on the spot. “I’m thankful that the first semester of college is almost over, and that Ariadne dragged me to that party a couple months ago.”

Eames meets his eyes and smiles. A warmth rushes through Arthur, unexpected. His mother smiles as well, almost knowing. God, Arthur hopes she doesn’t know. She probably does. He could never hide anything from her.

Eames spends most of the meal marveling at the food, and Arthur is glad his mother keeps the topics light, about school and hobbies mostly. He learns that Eames knows how to play the accordion and speaks three languages.

“So, Eames,” his mother says after they clear the table and are all sitting downstairs, watching _The Wizard of Oz_ on cable. “Are you going to come shopping with us tomorrow?”

“Hasn’t the shopping already begun?” Eames asks. “There were advertisements all day on the TV.”

His mom waves her hand. “We don’t go on Thursday. Ruins the holiday in my opinion. We’ll just go early tomorrow. Everything is always still there except the big ticket items. What do you say?”

Arthur shakes his head silently at Eames. Eames doesn’t have to come. He shouldn’t if he doesn’t want to.

Eames pauses. “I’m afraid I’m not a great shopper,” he says finally. “Not unless there are plenty of cinnamon pretzels involved.”

“It’s no problem at all,” she assures him. “You just stay here and relax. It’s your vacation, after all. I’m sure with finals coming up, things must be getting stressful.”

“They always do.”

Arthur feels slightly relieved that Eames isn’t coming. Shopping has always just been him and his mom.

“Maybe you and Arthur can study together,” she says, “help each other through.”

Eames smiles as he glances at Arthur. “Sounds like a plan.”

Yes, Arthur is sure Eames has a plan if the way his eyes linger on Arthur’s tie are any indication.

*

Since Eames wisely opted not to go shopping, Arthur recruits Ariadne to come hang out with him.

“And no asking him weird questions,” Arthur says as he enters the third store with his mother. It’s only eight in the morning, but they’ve been up for hours. He’s sure Eames hasn’t even woken up.

“I don’t ask weird questions,” Ariadne says on the other end of the phone.

His mother holds up a sweater and nods at Arthur encouragingly, but he shakes his head. She sets it down and wanders off into the store.

“No asking what his kinks are or what kinds of guys he likes.”

“I wouldn’t,” she says, and Arthur scoffs.

“You ask me.”

“We’ve been friends since third grade,” she reminds him. “Trust me, it’ll be fine. I won’t say anything weird. Promise.”

Arthur doesn’t entirely trust her not to say anything weird, but he has no other choice.

“We should be done by eleven,” he says. “I’ll text you.”

“We’re just gonna watch movies,” Ariadne says. “And maybe raid your room for porn.”

“I don’t have any—”

“Bye, Arthur!” she says and hangs up.

Shaking his head, Arthur tucks away the phone. He picks up the sweater his mom discarded but it’s still not speaking to him.

The store is crowded but not stuffed to the brim like it probably was last night. There are still plenty of things lying in disarray on tables as ruffled employees try fruitlessly to straighten them.

Arthur moves on to a pile of sweaters with ugly Christmas designs on them. He would never think of wearing one, though he does lift out one that’s not so terrible with reindeer stitched onto the front.

“That’s nice.” His mom appears at his shoulder.

“It’s hideous,” he says, laying it back down.

“Not if you’re getting it as a gift,” she says, smoothing out the front and glancing at him. “Eames might like it.”

She definitely knows. Still, Arthur turns away, almost smacking into a tie rack.

“Eames is very nice,” she goes on as Arthur scans the ties. He doesn’t own many ties and he rarely wears them. If he was going to get Eames anything, this would be perfect. “And handsome.” He knows she’s watching him closely from the suggestive tone of her voice.

“I need some more undershirts,” Arthur says instead of heeding her words.

He knows he has to tell her, but it’s so soon. He and Eames have only known each other for a month and a half. Then again, he did bring Eames home for Thanksgiving. If that isn’t a sign, he doesn’t know what is.

“I think it’s nice you asked him to come here,” she says. “I’d hate to think of him all alone during the holidays.”

“He doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” Arthur points out.

“Yes, but everyone else would be gone and all the stores would be closed. It could be very lonely.”

Arthur doesn’t think Eames is the type to get lonely, but he doesn’t tell her that. Instead, he rummages through a pile of sweaters for his size.

“I’m sure he’d survive.”

He hears her sigh beside him and knows he’s being stubborn. There’s no reason not to tell her. She already knows. She just wants him to confirm her suspicions.

“Mom,” he says finally, swallowing around the lump of nerves rising in his throat. “Eames and I are… we’re dating, I guess.”

She lights up and pulls him into an unexpected hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Okay, but that’s not why I brought him here. I just didn’t want him to be alone.”

She lets go of him and smooths down his hair, like she used to do when he was a kid.

“That was very sweet. And I’m glad you told me.”

Arthur feels better, a weight lifted off his chest. He should have told her sooner.

“Are you sure you don’t want to get him that sweater?” she asks, and Arthur smiles.

“Definitely not.”

She shrugs and goes to look at jackets while Arthur thumbs through the tie rack. He has a better present in mind.

*

“So you told your mum,” Eames says as he lays on Arthur’s bed. It’s a little squished with the two of them, but Arthur doesn’t mind, pressed against Eames. He can feel Eames’ warm breath against his neck, Eames’ hand heavy on his hip. “Does this mean I’m going to get a lecture on responsibility?”

“She’s not like that,” Arthur says, gazing at the bulletin board tacked on his wall. There are still old ticket stubs stuck to it, reminders for things long past. A different life.

High school hadn’t been particularly pleasant for Arthur. Making friends was hard when he found most of his classmates annoying and stupid. He’d graduated valedictorian but that had never helped in widening his social circle. College was different somehow. He wasn’t forced to be friends with people he didn’t like. He wasn’t stuck in some bubble. People didn’t make fun of him for doing his assignments on time.

Eames only hums in reply, sighing against Arthur.

“Why’d you start making videos?” Arthur asks after a minute. They should be asleep. Eames should be in his own room upstairs, but his mom has already gone to bed, and Arthur doesn’t want Eames to leave quite yet.

Eames makes a noise against his shoulder. “To be honest, it was a bit of a fuck you to my father. He always wants me to be more well-bred than I am. Hence the boarding school. I just thought it’d be a bit of a nice revenge, knowing there were videos of me out there on the internet. Of course, then I decided I liked it and just kept going.”

“Why do you like it?”

“I just like knowing there’s someone out there watching. Maybe they’re lonely. Maybe they’re just horny. Maybe they just need a distraction. If I can give it to them, why not?”

Arthur rolls over, pressed to Eames, their legs tangled on the bed. “And the fact that you’re an exhibitionist as nothing to do with it?”

Eames smiles. “Like I said, I like people watching, even if it’s just the camera.”

Arthur nods and doesn’t say what he’s thinking. He shouldn’t be thinking about it.

“How was shopping?” Eames asks. “Did you buy a ton of new sweater vests?”

“Maybe,” Arthur says as Eames laughs, his hand sliding over Arthur’s lower back.

“You should model them for me,” he says, pushing his hand under Arthur’s shirt.

“Maybe when we get back,” Arthur says, settling in against Eames.

“I’m holding you to that,” Eames says, but Arthur merely smiles. There’ll be plenty of time for that, he’s sure.

*

Saturday passes in a lazy blur of turkey sandwiches and Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne lounging in the basement watching movies.

“I didn’t get to see much of your town,” Eames points out as Ariadne puts in the second Lord of the Rings movie.

Out the basement window, Arthur can see the sky, grey and quickly darkening as evening falls. It hasn’t snowed yet, but every time Arthur goes outside, he can feel it, the crisp coldness seeping into his bones.

“Not much to see,” he says, tugging down his sweater.

“There’s always the gazebo,” Ariadne says from where she’s curled up on the chair, scrolling through her phone and not looking up. “It’s two hundred years old.”

“Such history in America,” Eames says with a laugh. His thigh is pressed to Arthur’s, warm and comfortable.

“Rumor has it that Patrick Henry sat in the gazebo,” Ariadne says, setting her phone aside.

“Who?” Eames asks.

“Let’s just watch the movie,” Arthur says. They don’t need to go traipsing around town to see some rundown gazebo that may or may not have been somewhere a founding father visited.

“This one’s my favorite,” Eames says, sliding his arm over Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur ignores Ariadne’s smirk.

“This one? Really?” Arthur would argue the first Lord of the Rings is the best.

“It has David Wenham in it,” Eames says. “The stuff of wet dreams.”

Arthur can’t exactly argue with that. “I’m learning all sorts of things about you this weekend,” he says instead, relaxing into the couch.

“Personally, I think the guy who plays Eomer is hotter,” Ariadne pipes up unhelpfully.

“It’s the unibrow,” Arthur tells Eames, flinching as Ariadne tosses the remote at him.

“He does not have a unibrow.”

Eames laughs, and Arthur is struck by how not awkward any of this is. It’s actually kind of nice. He doesn’t say it, though, and settles in to watch the movie, aided only by Eames and Ariadne’s comments on how good-looking Aragorn is.

*

Ariadne’s car idles outside as Arthur drags his bag upstairs while his mom fusses over Eames, pressing tupperware into his hands.

“We have plenty of leftovers,” she says as Eames tries to politely protest. “Better someone eat it than it go to waste.”

“Mom,” Arthur interrupts as he climbs the stairs to the front landing. Eames’s gaze immediately intensifies as he catches sight of Arthur. Arthur ignores him, running a hand absently over the tie tucked under his sweater.

“I know, I know,” she says. “You have to go.” She pulls him into a hug despite his noise of protest. “Study hard for finals.”

“I will,” he assures her, and even he’s surprised when she hugs Eames next. Eames raises his eyebrows at Arthur over her shoulder.

“Eames, it was so nice to meet you. I hope we see you around again.”

“I hope so too,” Eames says when she lets go of him.

Ariadne honks the horn outside, and Arthur opens the door. “We really need to get going.”

His mom follows them outside, standing on the porch as Arthur and Eames head to the car.

Ariadne pops the trunk and Arthur tosses his bag inside. He reaches for Eames’ bag as Eames steps closer.

“Is that tie for me?” he asks, voice low.

Arthur shoves Eames’ bag in the trunk and shuts it quickly. “We need to go. Traffic’s going to be hell.”

“You utter tease,” Eames groans as Arthur steps around him.

“Bye!” Arthur’s mom calls from the porch, waving as they slide into the couch.

“You ready to get back to school?” Ariadne asks as she pulls away from the curb.

“I think so,” Arthur says, and Eames says nothing from the backseat, though Arthur can practically feel Eames’ gaze on him as they leave the neighborhood and head for the freeway.

*

It seems to take forever to get back to campus, between the holiday traffic and Ariadne’s careful driving.

They stop at Eames’ apartment first, and Arthur hesitates as Eames climbs out of the car with a quick goodbye to Ariadne.

“You can just drop me off here,” Arthur says, undoing his seatbelt. “I’ll get back to the dorms on my own.”

“Sure,” she says, but she’s smirking again.

Arthur ignores her, shutting the door behind him and meeting Eames where Eames is grabbing his bag from the back. Eames doesn’t say anything as Arthur gets his own bag and Ariadne drives off.

“You think Dom is back?” Arthur asks, climbing the stairs behind Eames.

Eames unlocks the apartment, and it doesn’t look like Dom is back as far as Arthur can tell. Eames drops his bag by the door, shutting the door behind Arthur and pushing Arthur up against it without warning.

Arthur’s bag slips from his hand, but he’s not surprised when Eames’ hand slips to his neck, stroking down the tie. He swallows carefully, watching Eames’ gaze darken.

“He’s flying back tomorrow,” Eames says, crowding into Arthur’s space, close enough that Arthur can smell his aftershave, feel the warmth radiating off his body.

They could do this here, against the door, in a completely empty apartment, but Arthur has something else in mind. Though it might be more difficult to get Eames out of the living room if the way Eames’ mouth pressing to his throat is any indication.

“Bedroom,” Arthur says, giving Eames a shove, and Eames almost frowns, kissing Arthur instead, deep and lingering so that even Arthur hesitates. He pants for breath when Eames breaks away, scraping his fingers down Eames’ shoulder as Eames tugs his tie out from under his vest.

“You know it isn’t fair to wear this in public,” Eames breathes, and Arthur smiles briefly.

“Now that I know it’s a thing, I think I will more often.”

“Such a goddamn tease,” Eames mutters against his lips, but Arthur has other plans.

“Bedroom,” he says again, more firmly, taking Eames hand and pulling him through the living room.

“But there’s a sofa…” Eames says hopelessly as they pass it and Arthur gets him in his room. “Okay, we’re in the bedroom. Now can we get these clothes off?”

“Wait,” Arthur says, and Eames sinks onto his bed, looking frustrated, expression open as Arthur steps over to his desk.

“Going to read me poetry, Darling?” Eames asks, skimming off his shirt and dropping it on the floor. “I could be quite keen on that. You have a lovely voi—”

Arthur’s hand closes over the camera and Eames cuts himself off abruptly. Arthur’s heart thuds in his chest as he turns to Eames.

“Arthur?” Eames asks, almost hesitant, questioning.

“I want to set this up,” Arthur says before he can take it back. This weekend has proved that Eames can be trusted, that he’s someone Arthur can be with.

“I’m not going to argue,” Eames says, standing up quickly and taking the camera from Arthur’s hand, “but are you sure?”

“It’s not going on the internet,” Arthur says because he’s not ready for that, not yet. “Not now.”

“Of course,” Eames assures him, stepping away and grabbing the tripod. “Magic of editing, though. No one would ever know it was you.”

“That’s a different conversation,” Arthur says, watching Eames frame the shot, setting the camera up on the side of the bed.

“One at a time,” Eames agrees, glancing at Arthur with a small smile. “How about you make yourself comfortable?”

Arthur can’t help feeling nervous as he crawls on the bed, sitting up against the headboard, and Eames fiddles with the camera.

“You want to see the view screen?” Eames asks, and Arthur shakes his head. It’s going to be weird enough having the camera there. He doesn’t want to see himself. Eames leaves the camera, climbing over him and pressing kisses to his neck, his chin, his bottom lip. “You’ll forget about it in a minute.”

Arthur isn’t sure about that as he glances over, the red light of the camera glaring at him. Eames’ fingers are on his tie, tugging it apart. He runs the silk through his fingers thoughtfully.

“We could find another use for this,” Eames says, pressing the fabric to Arthur’s neck, and Arthur shivers.

Arthur’s finding it hard to concentrate, even with Eames in his lap, warm and heavy, holding him down. He doesn’t lean into Eames’ touch when Eames pushes his shirt up, warm hands grazing over his stomach. Eames gets his sweater off and his shirt unbuttoned, flumped on the floor in a wrinkled pile.

“Don’t look at the camera,” Eames tells him, turning Arthur’s chin from where his gaze is stuck on the lens watching him.

Eames kisses him deeply, a welcome distraction from the thought that he’s doing this on camera. Arthur didn’t even like doing video projects in high school, always offering to be the scriptwriter instead. He’s doing this for Eames, and a little for himself.

Eames gets off on this, he tells himself. Eames likes the idea of people watching. Arthur just wonders what he looks like, what it looks like with Eames on top of him, Eames’ hands sliding over his body. He starts to feel better as Eames slides a hand into his, intertwining their fingers as he thrust against him, their lower halves still painfully clothed.

Eames has probably been hard since they got in the car from the way he groans into Arthur’s neck and reaches for Arthur’s thigh, dragging it up so he can get closer.

Arthur can’t help the gasp that follows as Eames’ fingers dig into his thigh, and he thinks about how this looks on camera. He imagines watching Eames do this with someone else, how hot he would have found it before.

“What do you want to do with the tie?” Eames asks, a devious quirk to his eyebrow as he keeps his hips pressed to Arthur’s, not enough friction between them.

“I think you have an idea,” Arthur breathes, quietly.

Eames smirks, grabbing the tie from where he dropped it on the bed. He has Arthur’s hands above his head before Arthur can do more than take a sharp breath. Eames is fast, binding his wrists to the headboard so Arthur can barely move them.

“Fuck me,” Arthur whispers as Eames slides down, his hands tugging Arthur’s trousers open, shoving them over his thighs. It probably isn’t graceful, but Arthur doesn’t care. He knows Eames likes this, likes having Arthur underneath him like this, the red eye of the camera a steady gaze.

Arthur’s muscles tense, stretch, as Eames reaches for the lube and a condom. He can feel the tension in his shoulders, pulling against his binding as Eames gets his own jeans off and slides in against him, cock to cock, hot and heavy and deliciously pressed together.

Arthur knows the camera is still there, recording, but it’s only in the back of his mind now as Eames slides in a slick finger and his hips lift off the bed to help him along.

It’s hotter than before, a little slower, everything moving in slow motion as Eames pushes his legs up, drags his hips down as far as Arthur’s bound wrists will let him. Arthur licks his lips and focuses on his breathing, slow and steady, as Eames pushes inside him.

Closing his eyes, Arthur focuses on the feeling, the feel of Eames’ cock inside him, stretching his body, casting heat over his skin, the thrill in his stomach when Eames’ mouth slide down his chest, tongue circling his nipple and sucking while Arthur exhales slowly. 

He imagines a stranger watching this video, watching Eames sucking on his skin while he pushes inside. Eames lets Arthur’s leg fall, wrapping it around his back as he thrusts inside Arthur. His movements are smooth but shallow, not quite enough to bring Arthur off, and Arthur suspects it’s for the camera.

Eames puts on a show, he knows that. He puts on a show for the camera, angling his body the right way, fucking with intent, like he knows exactly what his viewers want.

Arthur almost wishes his hands weren’t tied so he could grab Eames and hold him inside, just for a second, just until Eames groaned, hips jerking involuntarily. Arthur wants that pressure, that glorious pain that comes with sex, just for a minute.

“Harder,” Arthur demands instead since he can’t reach for Eames. All he can do is hold onto the tie until his knuckles turn white and his prick flushes with heat, throbbing against his stomach.

Luckily, Eames listens to him, hands on Arthur’s hips, fucking him faster, harder, until Arthur is unable to stop the noises, the whines, moans, that fall from his lips.

“Jesus,” he curses under his breath as Eames leans into him, taking his mouth in a kiss, silencing him.

Eames kisses are sharp, tongue sliding into Arthur’s mouth, tracing the roof of his mouth, sucking on his tongue. Eames groans softly as Arthur’s hips push back into him, forcing him deeper. 

Arthur shudders at the heat pooling in his stomach, the tension rising on his skin, the slight twist of pain in his shoulder as he arches into Eames.

“Oh, fuck,” Eames says as he pushes into Arthur, a fast rhythm now, no teasing for the camera.

“Eames,” Arthur says before he means to, but Eames doesn’t seem to care, groaning as he comes, hips pushing deeply into Arthur, stilling for a long moment as the only sound filling the room is their breathing.

“Fuck,” Eames says again, but he slides out of Arthur before Arthur can quite get his bearings, leaning over and stopping the recording. He comes back, a satisfied look on his face. “This is just for you, Darling.”

Arthur opens his mouth to ask what, but Eames leans down, taking him in his mouth, and _fuck_ , Eames is good at this. Closing his eyes, Arthur takes a deep breath against the tightness in his stomach, the warmth of Eames’ mouth around him.

It doesn’t take Arthur long to come, straining against the silk tie holding his wrists hostage. He pants for air as Eames draws back, licking his lips and squeezing Arthur’s cock as he finishes him off. Arthur feels tired and weak as his shoulders slump and Eames reaches for a tissue to clean up.

“Eames,” he says when Eames crawls into his lap and kisses him, not untying him just yet.

“I could leave you like this,” Eames says, and Arthur presses his lips together.

“I could knee you in the groin.”

Eames laughs as he reaches for Arthur’s wrists, untying the tie and tossing it to the side. Arthur rotates his shoulders against the strain there as he brings his arms down.

“Oh, look,” Eames says as he sits next to where Arthur slumps down on the bed. “It’s snowing.”

It is indeed snowing outside Eames’ window—thick flakes swirling past, gathering on the sill.

Arthur finds his gaze drawn to the camera, though. He just did that. He just let himself be filmed.

“I’m sure you look bloody gorgeous,” Eames says, as though he knows what Arthur is thinking. He presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek.

“That’s not for your followers,” Arthur says, and Eames shakes his head, leaning in to Arthur’s mouth.

“That’s just for me,” he says, kissing Arthur easily.

Arthur leans into Eames as a warmth fills his chest. “So what are you doing for Christmas? Visiting your mom?”

“My dad wants me to come home to London this year,” Eames says, though he doesn’t sound too enthusiastic. His fingers play with Arthur’s hair and Arthur falls silent for a moment.

“I’ve never been to London,” he says, and Eames glances at him.

Eames just smiles, though, sliding an arm around Arthur’s shoulders and turning to watch the snow falling. Arthur doesn’t know where this is going to lead, but he does know, he’s going to enjoy getting there.

*

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> This is it. The last part of this series. And I'm posting it as a birthday fic to myself. It's been years since I posted a birthday fic. Anyway, yes I am old! So very old. Enjoy!


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